Legends of Australian Fantasy

by Jack

  Subsequently Master Squires reconsidered, for the earl could be both charming and persuasive when it suited him. The young scholar took lodgings at Clover Cottage with the Wiltons, thereafter commencing to appear at the earl’s side door early every morning and work all day in his study in the west wing. Assiduously he dedicated himself to writing letters and keeping the books or, to be more accurate, sorting them out, for he discovered the accounts to be in an almost inextricable state of chaos.

  Mazarine was pleased to have her childhood friend so close at hand, although a niggling doubt prompted her to ask Hawkmoor whether he had hired Wakefield for her sake.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘I assure you, Miss Blythe, he was the best candidate.’

  And instantly Mazarine regretted having asked such a question, for it would appear to cast doubts upon Hawkmoor’s integrity. He must have supposed she believed him capable of disloyalty to his father, a breaker of his promise to choose the featest man for the job. Yet it was too late and the thoughtless words could not be unsaid, though she apologised, which only seemed to make matters worse.

  From the time of Master Squires’s engagement, Hawkmoor no longer appeared as warm towards Mazarine as before, but cold and formal. She wondered whether she had done anything else to upset him, and agonised over it, and felt, as when they had first met, uncertain in his company.

  Fully cognizant of the reason for his heir’s reserve and revelling in it, Lord Rivenhall continually invited Master Squires to dine with the family. Mazarine was amazed that such an arrogant swank as her guardian would invite an employee to dine at his own table, but Hawkmoor grimly understood, and took his meals in subdued silence, leaving the chatter to Wakefield and Mazarine who, encouraged by the earl, indulged in recalling their childhood adventures.

  Once or twice after dinner Mazarine quietly asked Hawkmoor if he were in good health.

  ‘I am indeed. Gramercie,’ he merely replied, and walked away with symmetrical poise.

  If the young master kept himself aloof from Mazarine, he confided his inmost observations to industrious Thrimby, on the nocturnal occasions when that mysterious personage made himself apparent.

  ‘I find myself in constant turmoil, Thrimby,’ said he, sitting once again at his desk by the window, ‘restraining my sorrow and wrath. I can assure you, it goes hard with me. I would leave this house, if not that I crave to be near her, under the same roof. Yet it is torture knowing she is infatuated with another, and my father slyly adds to that torment with his teasing.’

  ‘I tell you, ‘tis you,’ insisted Thrimby, frenziedly scrubbing the hearth with an enormous brush of boar’s bristles. ‘You, she fancies.’

  ‘Why then does she spend so much time with him?’

  ‘They share memories of ‘appy child’oods, that is all!’

  ‘She is more often in his company than in mine.’

  ‘Because the master contrives to separate the two of you.’

  ‘I am not convinced!’

  ‘Suit yourself, young master.’ Dunking the brush zealously in a pail of rinsing-water, Thrimby continued,

  ‘When jealous thought uplifts its ‘ead, it crushes trust until it’s dead,

  And tortures love’s reality. Then joy and satisfaction flee.’

  He resumed scrubbing. Soap bubbles flew up like flocks of tiny birds.

  ‘To be honest I am not jealous, Thrimby,’ replied Hawkmoor. ‘I merely wish to make Mistress Blythe happy, and if she would be happier with him than with me, then that is how it must be.’

  “Tis true enough that ye be not the jealous kind, young master. As blind, deaf and dumb as a mole wearing ear-muffs mayhap; as self effacin’ as a snowman jumping into a frying pan, maybe, but not the jealous kind. As sacrificial as a worm wot offers itself to a blackbird to save the other worms ... ‘

  ‘Yes, yes, Thrimby, much obliged; that’s enough. I do comprehend your rather insulting point. But I will not be persuaded otherwise.’

  * * * *

  When Wakefield was working on the accounts and Hawkmoor was away at Southdale, Mazarine occupied herself with her hobbies — watercolour painting, sketching, collecting foliage and flowers for pressing, and writing letters to the friends she had left behind in northern Severnesse.

  Most often the earl was in his study in the west wing, arguing with Master Squires, or closeted in the library with his Chief Steward, plotting recondite strategies, or out shooting game with some of his louche companions — country gentlemen from around the district, or sleeping off the effects of a night’s carousing in his own halls or the halls of his hunting companions.

  Unexpectedly one afternoon, the earl summoned Mazarine to his side.

  ‘It is my wish to conduct you on a progress through this house, my dear,’ he said, offering her his arm in its brocaded sleeve. ‘It occurs to me you have not yet viewed all its glories. I think you will be pleased with what you see!’

  Bemused, she capitulated, passing her hand through the crook of his elbow. They strolled leisurely from chamber to chamber, along galleries, up and down staircases wide and narrow, through ‘secret’ passageways behind the walls and out along balconies and roof-walks. The house’s interior decor seemed to include an inordinate number of mirrors and, as they passed them, Mazarine’s guardian took every opportunity to glance at his image, whereupon he would adjust his latest millinery acquisition — all feathers and jewelled brooches — or rearrange his luxuriant shoulder-length ringlets or pick at his gleaming teeth with a silver toothpick he kept in a tiny ivory box in some inner pocket of his sleeve. Mazarine, in rustling black silk, walked calmly by his side. At length they arrived at the Long Gallery, whose row of tall windows provided extensive views of the grounds. The rear wall was decorated with paintings of the current earl from boyhood to manhood, captured in various magnificent attitudes; winged and graceful, flying in the clouds; sternly commanding, standing at the helm of a Windship; courageous and dauntless, galloping into battle on a white charger; sensitive and poetic, reclining beside a pool, trailing his unrealistically slender, pale fingers among the waterlilies.

  In front of the latter work of art, the earl paused and, turning to face his ward, grasped both her hands in his.

  ‘May I speak to you candidly, my dear?’

  Nonplussed, dumbfounded and suddenly anxious, Mazarine nodded. She tried not to meet his eyes, which resembled two pools of half-cooked albumen congealing in pink bowls.

  ‘You see, my dear,’ the earl said earnestly, ‘it is an unfortunate fact that, despite what blandishments your fond parents have no doubt lavished upon you, your physical attractions are, shall we say, limited. To be frank, your features are plain, your character is dull and you possess few accomplishments. One tries to be optimistic, however I am afraid that in the normal course of events you cannot hope to attract a husband of any worthwhile status. Due to our family connections I am, nevertheless, prepared to overlook your dearth of charms and, if you are careful to continue pleasing me, I might one day offer you — yes, you — the title of Lady Rivenhall!’ He paused to survey the effect of this good news, but when there was none — no doubt because the young lady was overcome with appreciativeness — he continued, ‘Being raised to such high estate would benefit you in numerous ways. You would be able to make the most of your ordinary looks with fine raiment, cosmetics and coiffure, because I, being widely acknowledged as a paragon of style, would condescend to teach you myself.’

  Mazarine, who had kept her eyes cast down throughout the entire monologue lest her guardian detect that she had begun to feel unwell, was trying hard to mask her reaction. The preposterous old fool! she said to herself, How could he so much as dream I would accept him? I fear I must feign gratitude at this ludicrous proposal. I must keep the peace in this house for my own sake, until I am twenty-one — then I shall be free!

  ‘I know what you are thinking,’ said her guardian. At these words a cold wire threaded itself along Mazarine’s spine. He had it wro
ng, however. ‘You are thinking that Fleetwood, who has tried to flatter his way into your good graces, might undergo a fit of apoplexy if he does not get his way. Yet fret no more on the matter, my dear — the boy’s peevish tantrums can be taken care of. You understand of course that he feels no real attachment to you. It is merely that without your compliance a cripple such as he has small chance of snaring himself a wife. By rights he ought to be wheeled around in a bath chair. He feigns straightness of limb, but his tricks fool nobody. Everyone knows of his wry gait, and eligible young ladies of good breeding and fortune find such skewedness unacceptable, there is no doubt of it.’

  Hold your tongue! Mazarine told herself desperately. Let him rant. They are only words ...do not let him provoke you!

  ‘Dear uncle,’ she forced herself to say at last, ‘how generous you are. Pray excuse me, I am so overwhelmed by your kind offer that I find myself indisposed.’ With that she hurried away, one hand plastered to her brow as if she were suffering some malaise of the head.

  ‘I shall send whatsername your maid to your chambers,’ her guardian shouted after her, turning away to glance in the closest mirror.

  Instead of going directly to her suite, Mazarine detoured by way of her uncle’s study. She knocked at the carved oaken door, pushed it open cautiously and peered inside.

  ‘Do come in, Mistress Blythe!’ said Wakefield, replacing his quill in the pen holder and jumping to his feet. Piles of papers and ledgers towered around him, burdening the desk, the cabinets and the floor. ‘I have not yet taken a break for elevenses, so I may interrupt my work for a few minutes, at least. My word, you do look downcast! Pray take a seat on the divan. Shall I ring for your maid? Or some cordial?’

  ‘No, no! I would rather speak with you alone,’ cried Mazarine. Once she was seated beside her friend she said diffidently, ‘Wakefield, I know I can confide in you. The thing is, I am in love with Fleetwood.’

  ‘I know,’ the young clerk said cheerily. ‘I have known since the moment I first saw you together, and I am uncommonly happy for both of you, for I feel certain that that worthy gentleman returns your sentiments!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mazarine replied dubiously. ‘Perhaps not. For, you know, it might be difficult for anyone to love me in that way, because I am —’ she hesitated, embarrassed, and averted her face ‘— it must be admitted, I am not very pretty ...’

  ‘Not pretty!’ cried Wakefield, half rising from his chair, ‘Not pretty? Where in Aia did you get that idea?’

  ‘I have always believed...’

  ‘What nonsense!’ Wakefield plumped himself down again and leaned forwards. ‘If you will pardon my bluntness, Mistress Blythe — Mazarine, if I may presume on our friendship — in my humble opinion you are one of the most beautiful creatures in Erith!’

  ‘You are trying to reassure me, Master Squires. It is most kind, but —’

  ‘Say no more on the subject!’ Wakefield said with mock severity. ‘I can see you are deluded. One good stare into a looking-glass should tell you of your beauty, but clearly you are blind to it. Nevertheless accept my word, and believe in your mind if not your heart, that you are indeed extraordinarily comely! If you will not be convinced, try asking your house-brownie. Eldritch wights cannot tell lies, so perhaps you will place confidence in him!’

  ‘Oh, so you have glimpsed Thrimby?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  ‘I suspect my uncle never has.’

  ‘Perhaps Thrimby will not let him!’

  They both laughed. It was a relief for Mazarine to converse mirthfully and freely with her friend after the unpleasant rhetoric to which her guardian had recently subjected her.

  ‘Now that you have entrusted your romantic secret to me, Mistress Blythe,’ Wakefield murmured, waggling his eyebrows, ‘I have a similar arcanum for your ears alone!’

  ‘In sooth? Tell on!’

  The young man leaned closer and began to whisper in Mazarine’s ear. It was at that moment that Hawkmoor chanced to pass by the study door — which Mazarine had left ajar — his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting of the hallway. He glanced inside. The two confidantes were positioned out of view, but one of the earl’s ubiquitous mirrors — a vast, shimmering expanse, like a frozen skating-pond in a heavy gilt frame, fastened to the wall above the mantelpiece — revealed their reflected images; the two heads bent together in a most intimate pose as they whispered together. That single glimpse was enough for the heir of Rivenhall. Despairing, he hastened away.

  Meanwhile Wakefield was murmuring, ‘Mistress Wilton and I are troth-plighted!’

  Mazarine’s chime of delighted laughter smote Hawkmoor like a blow as he retreated along the passageway. In the study, the next few minutes were given over to Mazarine’s congratulatory utterances and her showering of praises upon the person of Laurelia Wilton.

  ‘Keep the news to yourself, pray, dear Mistress Blythe,’ said Wakefield. ‘Laurelia and I cannot be wed until I have scraped together a little more capital to ensure our financial security.’

  ‘The matter is safe with me!’ Mazarine assured him. ‘But hush! I hear my uncle’s voice. He is coming. I would rather avoid him!’ Taking her leave of the clerk she flitted noiselessly out of the study through a secret passage that opened behind a hinged bookcase — a way she had discovered by herself, and which she was fairly certain the earl was unaware of.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  Misunderstanding leads to jealousy

  Or hate or anger — sometimes to all three.

  Our motives, though of high integrity,

  Are lost if not presented limpidly.

  Through etiquette, reserve or courtesy,

  We misconstrue good purpose constantly.

  After the earl’s declaration Mazarine found it more difficult than ever to catch a moment alone with Hawkmoor. She wished only for an opportunity to ask him why he had become so distant, and whether she had inadvertently caused any offence, but it was as if Steward Ripley, the bodyguards and most of the other servants — including even the under-gardener — were spying on her. Any time she believed she was on the verge of being able to converse with Hawkmoor unobserved, whether indoors or out, some member of the household would appear casually around a corner, supposedly labouring at an important task — re-pointing the masonry, inspecting the beams for woodworm, hunting for truffles, searching for the earl’s lost snuff-box — always just within earshot.

  ‘Prithee, take yourself elsewhere!’ Mazarine would beg.

  ‘Alas, mistress, his lordship appointed me to this task. I cannot disobey!’

  In exasperation Mazarine would suggest to Hawkmoor that they move to a more secluded spot. If he could be persuaded to do so, it was only to be surprised by yet another employee appearing at their elbows. There was no privacy to be had at Kelmscott Hall. Furthermore, the earl would not hear of his heir and his ward going off together on any jaunts outside the estate. He came up with a remarkably ingenious set of excuses to thwart such excursions and, since he was master, his word was law. Besides, to make matters worse it began to dawn on Mazarine that Hawkmoor, too, was avoiding situations likely to bring them together.

  Away over the hills thunder grumbled. The wind was rising. As evening drew in, a storm was rapidly approaching from the distant coast. Mazarine, passing through the darkening galleries of Kelmscott in the west wing, heard the echoes of men’s voices. Drawing near to her guardian’s study she stopped outside the closed door. The utterances were muffled. Mazarine, however, had not paused to eavesdrop; she merely wished to ascertain who was within, for Hawkmoor was due to arrive home at any time, and if the earl was preoccupied she intended to seize the opportunity to speak in private with the object of her affections. At length she was satisfied that the room did indeed contain the earl, deep in conversation with Ripley. Doubtless the two connivers would be conducting their vigorous discussion for a good long while, for by the gravity of their tones it sounded as if they dwelled on serious
matters, probably pertaining to the series of disasters Master Squires was uncovering in the earl’s ill-kept records of monies owed and monies due.

  Hastening to a window overlooking the driveway, Mazarine gazed out. The evening skies hung heavy and sullen, bruised with rainclouds. A flash of white light briefly illumined the figure of a horseman on the avenue, between the outlines of tall cypress trees stencilled against the sky. Hawkmoor was here already! Picking up her skirts the damsel rushed along the gallery at speed. Down the stairs and out the door she flew, finally intercepting the new arrival as he let his horse walk to the stables beneath an arbour dripping with the magnificent amber, gold and ruby leaves of the climbing plant known as ‘crimson glory-vine’.

  At Mazarine’s appearance the rider halted. He turned towards her with a look of sad enquiry, holding the reins of his steed loosely in his right hand. As so often, his masculine beauty struck the girl with force. Momentarily, she became tongue-tied. She who hesitates, loses, her mother used to say, and abruptly it was true, for a groom appeared from the stables, and the moment was lost. Hawkmoor dismounted — without betraying the slightest evidence of any twinge, so well had he schooled himself — but denied the reins to the servant and stood holding them, while his horse nodded its long head and chewed on the bit. The groom waited, eyes respectfully cast down.